On the Road Again
by darcyfarrow
Summary: This is my take on the road trip in 2.13-though it's nothing like the real thing. Gold, Emma and Henry set out to find Bae, and Gold discovers he has a lot to learn. Just a little silliness because we Rumple-Gold fans need a break.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1: The Drive**

**A/N. Spoiler alert! This story is my own version of 2.13. If you don't like spoilers, please wait until after "Tiny" has aired in your area—although I'm sure my version will have very little in common with the one Kitsis, Horowitz et al come up with. I can't help imagining the potential for fun and games with this group of travelers. Just for fun, this is one of those "everything and the kitchen sink" stories, as far as fan theories go. . . . Hope you get a chuckle out of it.**

* * *

Emma stops her pacing long enough to look at the kitchen clock. It's noon. High noon. She can almost hear "Do Not Forsake Me" playing in the background as Mary Margaret and David rise from the couch and come to stand beside her. All three begin talking at once: "You don't have to do this" (Mary Margaret), "I'll pulverize him" (David), "I'm gonna slap the cuffs on him, that's what I'm gonna do. Threatening two officers of the law" (Emma). Henry emerges from the bathroom with his backpack slung over his shoulder and shouts to get their attention; when they all stop and stare at him, he smiles pleasantly and announces, "I'm ready to go, Emma." And that starts a whole new round of shouting.

Into the midst of this chaos walks the gunslinger, or rather cane-slinger, dressed in the traditional black (unless you count his dark blue silk shirt). The door stands open and no one would hear his knock anyway, so he strolls in like he owns the place (which he does—and considering nobody paid the rent last month because of that return-to-the-Enchanted-Forest fiasco, his pushiness is kind of justified).

He taps his cane on the wooden floor and everyone shuts up just long enough to figure out the source of the interruption; when they see who their intruder is, the yakking starts all over again: threats, pleas, questions coming from all directions, and all three styles of conversation coming from Emma all at once. Seems she can't make up her mind whether she's pissed off, puzzled or just a little enticed by the promise that this road trip brings: a chance to finally unravel the many-mysteried Mr. Gold (_What's this about a son? If he has a son, does that mean there's an ex-Mrs. Gold running around somewhere? Oh gods, what if it's CORA?_).

A shrill whistle breaks through. Every mouth in the Charming clan drops open and they look at each other, trying to figure out who whistled, and at last they realize it was none of them: it's Gold, two fingers poised in his mouth, ready to whistle again if need be. "It's noon, Sheriff Swan. We leave _now_." He spots a gym bag on the kitchen counter and reaches for it. "Is this what you're taking?"

Emma's staring at Gold and trying to imagine him and Cora doing the wild thing. Good thing she hasn't had lunch yet.

David slams his hand down on the bag. "Leave it. That's mine, Gold."

Mary Margaret wrinkles her nose. "You wouldn't want to have that in your car anyway. Dirty gym socks."

"Ferret," Gold mutters.

"What?" David's pretty sure he's just been insulted, but he doesn't get it.

"The last idiot who annoyed me, I turned into a rat. You, on the other hand, look more like a ferret." The hands resting quietly now on the cane suddenly glow with a purple light.

Emma's still stuck on that Gold-Cora fantasy (_gods, am I a Golden Heart shipper?_) . . .until she realizes with a shudder that if Gold and Cora produced Bae, they may also have produced—**duhn duhn duhn, insert ominous music here**—Regina.

"Don't you threaten my husband," Mary Margaret warns. "You're looking at a family of ogre-killers and dragon-slayers." She folds her arms defiantly.

"And one of us has magic," Emma adds. She wants to smirk but she winces instead (_If Cora and Gold are Regina and Bae's parents, and if Neal is Bae, then Henry is—and I am—oh gods, I'm gonna be sick!_)

"Are you calling me out, Sheriff?" Only Gold's lips are moving. The rest of him is so still, it's disconcerting—and he knows it.

"Just sayin', that's all," Emma backs down. She has no idea how powerful she may—or may not—be compared to him, but considering he's got a few years' head start on her in the training and experience department, she's not going to press her luck. Yet, anyway. (_Of course, if Cora and Gold are Henry's grandparents, then Henry might have more magic than all of us put together._)

"Fine. Get your luggage and meet me downstairs." He makes a graceful pivot—the guy could be a ballet dancer if not for that bum leg—and vacates the apartment.

And all chaos breaks loose once more.

Fifteen minutes later, the whole lot of them is gathered around Gold's car. David's got a couple of soft-sided travel bags slung over his shoulder; Mary Margaret's holding a picnic basket, Emma's setting her laptop on the bonnet of Gold's car and he's imploring her not to scratch the paint, and while the adults are preoccupied, Henry is sneaking the far-side back door open and crawling into the Caddy's backseat.

"Listen, we don't have to go anywhere," Emma's insisting. "All we need is this. Let's do this the easy way." She flips the laptop open and presses the start button on the side. As the laptop lights up—just as powerful as the glow in Gold's hands, Emma believes—she explains, "I can track anyone right here, right now. All I need is this and a few well-placed calls. I _am_ a sheriff, remember. That gives me access that not even you have, Gold."

Gold raises a hand in a stop gesture. "I'm sure under normal circumstances you can, Sheriff; your hunting skills are one reason you're the savior. But these circumstances are extraordinary."

"Try me," Emma's fingers are already flying as she attaches the air-card and logs on. "Give me ten minutes and I'll have him for you. What's his name?"

"Baelfire."

Mary Margaret tilts her head. "What an odd name."

"Indeed it is—_Snow_," Gold sneers.

"How do you spell that?" Emma's typing furiously. "Is that the first or last name?"

"It's his only name."

"Oh. His old-world name. What's his name here?"

"I don't know."

Mary Margaret and David exchange a sour look. David finally has a chance to get a dig in, and he takes it. "You don't know your own son's name? What kind of parent are you?"

"Let's see now: how old was Emma when you finally showed up in her life?" Gold bites back. "What kind of parent are you?"

Emma breaks in. "All right. His birthday?"

"The fourth day of the first month after harvest."

"Which is what?"

Gold shrugs, guessing, "October 4?"

"What year?"

"The nineteenth year in the reign of George III."

"Well, how old would he be? In this world, I mean."

"Fourteen or forty-three."

"What the fudge, Gold?"

"I'm not sure precisely when he arrived in this world. I attempted to set the curse so that—"

"'Set the curse'? _You_ cast the curse, not Regina?" David interrupts.

Gold flashes his teeth at the youngster, reminding David why Hook refers to Rumplestiltskin as the Crocodile. "Let's get the facts straight, shall we? Regina cast the curse, but do you really think she has the intellectual wherewithal to have created it?" He turns back to Emma. "Now as I was saying: I attempted to set the curse so that our arrival would pre-date his by twenty-eight years, to allow for the curse-breaker to do her part. Of course, I didn't expect it would take you an entire year to believe—"

"Forget the birthday. Did he have any friends or relatives—no, of course not." Emma's eyes widen as awareness settles in. "Damn, Gold, you sent a fourteen-year-old into a foreign land, no friends waiting for him, no education, no identification, no knowledge of the modern world, I presume no money—did you at least teach him to speak English first?"

Gold's jaw tightens. "It wasn't I who sent him."

"Who then, the Tooth Fairy?"

"Close. Ms. Swan, I appreciate your efforts to find my son 'the easy way'"—he waves his hand at the laptop. "But as you can see, we're going to have to do it my way."

"You at least got a starting place?"

"Of course."

"All right, then. We do it your way. Road trip."

And in a flurry of hugs and kisses, once more, Mary Margaret and David bid their daughter adieu.

Amid the ruckus, Gold opens the driver's side door.

"Hello, Mr. Gold!" Henry chirps from the back seat.

Gold seizes Emma's arm and points. "What is he doing there?"

"Hey, Gold, open the trunk so I can put these in," David indicates the bags he's carrying.

"Emma, do you need to—you know," Mary Margaret stage-whispers, "use the restroom before you go? It might be a long trip."

Gold raises his voice as he reaches beneath the steering column and pulls the trunk latch. "I repeat, what is he doing there? May I assume we're dropping him off at school before we leave?"

"Assume all you want, but the fact of the matter is, he's coming with us." Emma takes her bags from David and tosses them into the trunk, ignoring the way they land on top of Gold's brand-new Louis Vuitton suitcase, probably scratching the leather. "Or I'm not going." She squares her body, ready for a confrontation.

"He certainly is not—"

Emma flips up a warning finger in his face. "Huh uh. My part of the deal is to help you find your son. Your part of the deal is to shut up and pay my expenses. After what Mary Margaret and I've been through—which, by the way, you could've done something about—"

"My powers are extensive, dear, but realm jumping isn't one of them."

"After what we've just been through, nobody's separating me from my son ever again. Not Cora, not Regina, and certainly not you. I'm sure you can appreciate that: a parent not wanting to be separated from her son."

Gold tightens his mouth and slams the trunk shut, making the car shake. "Do you have any idea, Ms. Swan, the kind of danger you could be exposing your child to?"

"What, was your son kidnapped by gangsters or something?"

"It's not some quaint little seaside village we're going to. He could get lost, injured—"

"You leave me to worry about his safety. I know a bit more about getting around a big city than you do. I say he goes, or I don't. I'm not leaving him here with Regina and Cora running around God-knows-where."

In his sweet, as-yet-childlike voice, Henry calls out through the open window, "Is there a problem, Mr. Gold?"

Moving to the driver's door, Gold glares across the roof of the car at Emma. "He's your responsibility."

"Of course he is. That's why he's coming." Emma nearly pulls the passenger door off its hinges as she flings it open. "Gold! I'll make a bet with you: you're gonna need me to bail you out of trouble long before Henry does."

"Get in the car, _please_, Sheriff."

Mary Margaret and David wave and shout goodbyes as Gold revs the engine and jerks the steering wheel. The last words they hear as the Caddy squeals rubber are Mary Margaret's "I hope you like egg salad, Mr. Gold!"

They've only just turned onto Main Street when Emma suggests, "Why don't you let me drive?"

"No." Through gritted teeth Gold tries to remember he's a gentleman. "Thank you."

"Well, it's your right knee that's the bum one, right? I mean, that can't be good for your driving."

"No. Thank you."

"Whatever. You get tired, though, don't be too proud to ask." She strokes the leather of the dashboard admiringly. "I wouldn't mind. Never driven a Caddy before."

"So where are we goin', Mr. Gold?" Henry leans forward. Since he's sitting directly behind Gold, his voice pierces Gold's ear.

"We're leaving town."

"Yeah, but—"

"Yeah, where are we going, Mr. Gold?" Like son, like mother. She pops the glove compartment open and begins poking around. "You got a bunch of maps here. You need some help navigating?"

He slaps at her hand and pushes the glove compartment closed again. "No. Thank you." Each time he says it, his voice creeps up a notch; he's now sounding a lot like his old self: the one with the maniacal giggle.

"Don't you have GPS, Mr. Gold?" Henry tries to peer around Gold's seat to the dashboard.

Emma persists, "You can at least tell me where we're going. I mean, you're never been out of town before. You're going to need some directions."

"I know how to read a map, Sheriff Swan." His fingers drum on the steering wheel. "Now why don't you just sit back and enjoy the scenery?"

"You really gonna cross the town line? I know you did it once, but what if your magic potion's lost its kick? Maybe it would better if I drive, in case you black out or something."

"Ms. Swan, please! Just. . . sit back and. . . enjoy the scenery."

"So where are we goin'?" Henry pops up again, like the clown in the crank-operated children's toy—Henry-in-the-box.

Barely ten minutes into the trip and Gold's already got a migraine. "Logan International Airport," he mutters.

"I think he means after that," Emma's become fluent in Henryese.

"Let's just take things one step at a time, shall we?"

"Can we have some music?" Henry's already bouncing around the backseat. "You got any CDs? 'Cause if you don't, we could listen to the radio."

"No music," Gold barks. They're passing the "Welcome to Storybrooke" sign. Just a couple of yards now.

"You nervous?" Emma notices his white-knuckle grip on the steering wheel.

And then the scarf thing he's wearing around his neck begins to glow and shimmer, and Henry utters, "Cool!" and Emma utters, "Whoa!"

The Caddy's tires pass over the red line. Henry and Emma fall silent and Gold draws in a deep breath, relishing the silence for just a second until he feels the fine hairs on his arms stand up and the goose bumps rise on his skin, and there's a sudden surge of energy rushing through his blood, sort of like sticking your tongue in a light socket—or what he imagines sticking your tongue in a light socket would feel like, because of course he's never done such a thing (although there was that one time he stuck his tongue to an icy lamp post. . .). He gets just a taste of this new magic and it interacts badly with his own, making his ears ring and his stomach churn, but the Caddy rolls on and breaks through the magic barrier and then he feels the pressure in the atmosphere lift and the electricity leaves his body.

"You okay?"

"Yes, Emma."

She leans back, wiggling her fanny in the seat. "Hey, you've got seat warmers, don't you?"

"Yes, Emma."

"So, now I'm 'Emma,' instead of 'Ms. Swan.' Does that mean I get to call you by your first name?"

"No."

"I could drive whenever you get tired."

"No. Thank you."

"Just sayin'."

"Perhaps you brought a book or something you could read—quietly?" he asks hopefully.

"Here!" Henry's arm thrusts forward, bumping Gold's. "Sorry, Mr. Gold. Here, Emma: a Game Boy! I brought two so we can play together!"

"Lovely," Gold mutters as the beeps and bells begin. "Just. . . lovely."

At least they leave him alone for the next hour. At least their exclamations of triumph and defeat keep him awake on this long, empty stretch of highway.

He sighs and turns on the seat warmers.

An hour later they're getting into a little traffic and they get stuck behind a farmer moving a cultivator from the North Forty to the Back Forty. Creeping along at twelve miles per hour—to be fair, sometimes the farmer guns it and gets all the way up to fifteen—mother and son decide this is a good time to restart the questioning, since Gold doesn't have anything better to do at the moment.

She's poking around in his glove compartment again; he gives up that particular battle. After all, all he has in there is a tire gauge and the maps. It's not like he keeps the dagger in there. Heh heh heh.

"How long will it take to get there?" Henry wants to know. "Just asking because I didn't get a chance to charge my Game Boys before we left. I don't know if they'll hold up the whole trip."

Perhaps there is something to be said for having been so poor in the old days, Gold thinks, back when he was the village spinner. If he'd have had a wagon instead of just his own two feet, Milah and Bae would've wanted to come along on Market Days, and that would have been just like this.

"Gotcha, Emma! You're dead!"

Yes. Just. . like. . .this.

"Which flight are we on?" Emma digs into her coat for her cell phone and flips it open. "I'll need to get a ticket for Henry. Unless—you didn't already buy one, did you?"

"Mr. Gold is always prepared for everything," Henry says confidently.

But Gold shakes his head slowly.

"All right," Emma growls. "Give me your credit card. You're payin'."

"I shall make the arrangements when we arrive at the airport."

"No you won't. We'll make them now, 'cause if I can't get a seat for Henry, we're changing flights. So give me your credit card and tell me which flight we're on." She snaps her fingers impatiently. "Come on, get a move on."

A low rumble issues from Gold's throat, but without taking his eyes from the road, he unhooks his seat belt and half-stands in his seat, blindly feeling around his posterior.

"Whoa! What are you doin'? You can't drive like that." Emma's left hand dives for the steering wheel as the car jerks sideways. "Did you forget what happened to the guy from Pennsylvania?"

"How else do you expect me to retrieve my wallet, Ms. Swan?" he snaps, falling back into his seat. "I will not interrupt this journey by pulling over for any reason." Through his rear-view mirror he shoots a chilling glance at Henry. "Particularly not Game Boy recharging."

Henry shrinks into the Corinthian leather upholstery.

"Hell, Gold, Logan's four hours away! You're going to have to stop at least once—or let me drive." Emma smirks. "That knee of yours won't hold up that long."

"My knee will do as it's told, and I suggest the two of you follow suit."

Emma produces a drawn-out sigh remarkably similar to that of a wife who has been overtaxed by a blustering curmudgeon of a husband for too many years to take stock in his threats. "Get back up and I'll get the wallet."

That does it: his eyes finally tear from the road and cut to hers. "You're kidding."

"I got to get that ticket for Henry. Every minute we waste arguing is a minute we can't afford—it may be too late now. The flight might be sold out."

"'Sold out'?" he echoes, then he wipes the worry from his face with a sneer. "Nothing is ever 'sold out,' Ms. Swan, when you have money. Alternate arrangements can always be made."

"Gold. . . you've never flown anywhere, have you?" It's a new thought to Emma; although _intellectually_ she knows that no one has been able to leave Storybrooke in all the years of its existence, it just hasn't registered with her. Where she'd come from, people travel: some by bus (she glances back at Henry), some by car, a lot by train or subway, a few by airplane, but travel they do. This is America, the big country: moving around is what you're born to do; it's your heritage, just like hot dogs and apple pie and cussing about taxes (_Do Storybrookers pay taxes? Come to think of it, I don't recall seeing any FICA withholding from my paycheck_.)

And then she realizes something else: Gold wasn't kidding with his crack about money. He really does expect to just waltz into Logan and toss some money in the air and presto-chango, they'll put him on a plane. In first class, of course. On second thought, he probably doesn't even realize there is a coach class.

Her skin prickles. "Gold. . . you did buy us some tickets, didn't you?"

"I wasn't sure how long it would take to get to the airport. It's not like I can just snap my fingers and poof! We're there," his voice trails off at the end as he realizes what he's saying. "Oh. Yes, I can."

"Guess you never heard of Mapquest." Emma groans. "Did you do anything to prepare for this trip?"

"Yes, Ms. Swan, as a matter of fact, I did. I created a curse, then I created a town, then I brought Henry here, then—"

"Let me clue you in on a few things. This is _my _world now we're driving into, so if you're smart, you'll do what I say. You're about to go up against the two fiercest forces this world has to offer. Compared to them, Cora and Hook and Regina are a caboodle of fluffy kitties."

"And what forces would those be, Sheriff?"

"The airline industry and the TSA."

He snorts in derision. Emma just rolls her eyes. "Gold, you ever hear of Dante's Inferno?"

"Indeed. I met Dante while he was still painting graffiti on the Baptistery. It was my suggestion that he turn his talent to something more lucrative."

"Well, there's, what, seven layers of Hell in his Inferno, right?"

"Nine. And it's circles, Ms. Swan. Circles are magic; layers are not."

"Fine, circles. Well, you're about to experience the nine circles of Hell in this world, and they're all at the airport." She flutters her fingers upward. "I still need that credit card. Get your ass back up."

He elevates himself a few inches, not enough that she can see where her hand is headed, so she has to proceed by feel. As the car hits a pothole, her hand and his backside jerk simultaneously, and she might be squeezing something that isn't a wallet, for he yelps and flies up from his seat until his head hits the ceiling, and she sniggers. "Bet that's the first time that's happened."

"What are you insinuating? And kindly remove your hand from my anatomy. The wallet is in the right pocket."

"Just that I'm sure you've never done anything in a car that isn't proper. Especially if it would wrinkle your suit."

"Ah. I suppose you're referring to that time-honored teenage pastime, 'making out in cars.'" He narrows his eyes. "If so, I plead guilty as charged. I believe in treating a lady friend as a lady."

"Yeah, a quick burger at Granny's and then a shag back at that pink house of yours."

"Ms. Swan, might I remind you, you have an impressionable son in the back seat." His voice drops to a mutter. "Though I suppose a back seat may have something to do with why you have a son to begin with."

"Shut up and stand up. I'm going in again. Sheesh. The things I do to keep my promises."

"That's _your_ heritage—Princess Emma. You're not really an American, any more than I am." He draws in a sharp breath as he rises from his seat for the third time.

"Knee bothering you? I'll be happy to drive."

"Just retrieve the wallet and—do whatever it was you were going to do. With all your yapping I've forgotten what it was."

For that, she rewards him with a rather personal squeeze. "Sorry. Just trying to pull the wallet out. Never knew you wore your pants so tight."

"Careful, Sheriff, or I may have to bring a sexual harassment complaint against you."

She snorts. "Go ahead and try. One look at me, then one look at you and the jury'd bust out laughing." The wallet retrieved, she withdraws her hand and begins poking through it. "Hmm! No pictures."

"Only the green ones with the faces of the Presidents," he admits.

"Yeah, plenty of those. No business cards, Mr. Gold?"

He smirks again. "Unnecessary. Everyone knows who I am."

"No prophylactics?"

"Ms. Swan!"

"Well, I just never pictured you for the reckless type."

From the back seat, Henry pipes up, "Emma, what's a proper-lactate?"

"You see the trouble your gutter mouth will get you into?" Gold remarks.

Emma shrugs. "He's getting about that age. I don't suppose Regina ever told him about the birds and the bees?"

"That's one aspect of childrearing I never discussed with her majesty. But may I request, if you intend to take on that task yourself, you wait for another time?"

"What, Gold, you don't think you have anything to learn?"

"In that regard, hardly. I am three hundred years old."

That shuts her up. "Oh." She returns to rifling through his wallet, setting his teeth on edge as his privacy is so casually violated. "Good, you've got your driver's license. You're going to need it in the airport."

His eyebrows shoot up. "Why? Will I be required to drive the plane?"

Emma chuckles. "You really don't know anything about flying, do you?"

"On the contrary. Flight was my preferred mode of travel in the old country."

She clicks her tongue. "The TSA is going to have a field day with you. Listen, Gold, when we get there, let me do all the talking. You smart off, even in joking, to a TSA agent and we could all land in jail." She withdraws the driver's license from the wallet. "So _that_'s your first name!"

"Let me see, let me see!" Henry unsnaps his seat belt so he can lean forward; Emma holds it up for him. He giggles.

"Okay, buckle up again, Henry," Emma orders. "Well! Ruby wins the pot."

"Pardon me?"

"The pot. Archie bet that your first name was 'Mister,' I bet that you didn't have one, Leroy bet that it—well, let's just say it has to do with the male anatomy. But Ruby said it would be something so ordinary, so bland that we'd all be disappointed." Emma slides the license back into the wallet. "She's right."

Gold snorts. "You're all wrong. That's not my name, any more than 'Archie' or 'Leroy' or 'Ruby' or 'Mary Margaret' is a real name. Regina chose those names and until you broke the curse, we were stuck with them, the one exception being your father."

"What do you mean?"

"His name actually is David."

"Huh!" Emma locates the credit card—and once again, seems disappointed in what she's found in his wallet. "Just one credit card? I figured you for a three-card man, at least."

"I have very little need for credit."

"Oh. Yeah." She shrugs. "At least it's gold card."

"Of course."

"Now you're going to have to tell me where we're flying to." When he doesn't answer, she presses, "We got to buy the tickets first. That's how things work here. We'll be lucky if we can even get tickets, depending on where you're going. So, what are we going?"

His lips part just enough for the word to be pried out. "Manhattan."

"As in New York?"

"Is there another?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact: Manhattan, Kansas; Manhattan, Indiana; Manhattan, Montana; Manhattan, Nevada."

"New York."

She sucks in a breath. "Oooh, Gold. . . don't tell me you didn't make hotel reservations either."

"In the old world—"

"Yeah, yeah, I know: your money could get you in anywhere. Well, this is New York City we're talking about. And Manhattan, nonetheless. Those reservations you've got to make a year or even two head, depending on where you want to stay. And knowing you, you'd insist on the Ritz or the Waldorf." She scoffs. "Fine. I'll make those reservations too. But I got to warn you: we might end up sleeping in Teaneck. And Henry and I get our own room."

"You may reserve a suite for the three of us."

"What's the limit on this gold card?"

"None of your concern, Ms. Swan."

"I guess I'll find out in a minute. One suite it is, then."

She punches the keys of her phone and for the next several minutes her tone is all business as she navigates her way through the automated system to reach a real live human being. There will be an extra fee for buying tickets by phone, but let that be Gold's punishment for being so uncharacteristically sloppy in his preparations. Her tone becomes more forceful and Gold's grip on the steering wheel becomes tenser as the calls drag on and on. At last with a sigh she snaps the phone shut and drops the credit card back into the wallet. "Well, you want the good news first or the bad?"

"Don't keep us in suspense, Emma. The bad, of course."

"Plane tickets are costing you eighteen hundred bucks."

"I assume that's first class."

"Nope. No first available. We're flyin' coach."

"And the good news?"

"You get the pleasure of an overnight stay in Boston, 'cause our flight doesn't leave until nine a.m. And I got us a suite at the Central Park Ritz: that's gonna cost you a grand a night, not including taxes."

Henry chirps from the back seat, "Mr. Gold, I need to go."

"Go?"

"Yeah, you know—go."

Emma snickers. "Bet you're wishing you took David instead, huh?"


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2: The Airport

**A/N. Thank you, Travelg and Scifigrl10, for the faves! In this chapter, Mr. Gold travels in high style.**

* * *

"Pull over here."

"Pardon me?" His ears are still ringing from his companions' impromptu concert of the past hour—their full repertoire consisting of an off-key and lyrically incorrect version of "Call Me Maybe" (he's embarrassed that he even knows they got the lyrics wrong). So he's in no mood to be challenged; his polite "pardon me?" is not a request for repetition of an unheard statement, but rather an implied warning: _are you quite sure you want to provoke me?_

She does. Blithely she repeats, "Pull over. We'll be in Boston in another 30 miles, so I'm driving."

"Indeed not—"

"Look, Gold, I promise to handle your car like it's a newborn in a bassinette, okay? It just makes sense for me to drive. Look at you: you're hunched over that steering wheel like a sixteen-year-old with his first hangover riding the porcelain throne. And we haven't even got into the real traffic yet. By the time we get into town, it'll be rush hour—and believe me, in Boston, rush hour isn't just the name of a Jackie Chan movie. For my kid's safety, I'm driving. Besides, I know where we're going; I grew up here; and you don't have a GPS system."

"What is this 'GPS' you people keep on about," he mutters. "Sounds like a social disease." But he ignores her command and keeps on driving, white-knuckling it as a sixteen wheeler suddenly looms large in his rear view mirror and he can't change lanes because he's boxed in between SUVs on a six-lane highway. The trucker blares his horn and Gold jumps in his seat, banging his knee on the dash.

In a warning of her own, Emma hisses, "Gold. . . ."

In a move of utter faith and hope, he swings the Caddy into the right lane, earning an angry honk from a soccer mom in the SUV he's cut off. Henry glances back at them and observes longingly, "Hey, they've got a TV in the back seat."

In another mile Gold manages to slide the Caddy over another lane, between a Dodge Ram and a Toyota. The Dodge suddenly hits his brakes and Gold has to swerve to avoid hitting him. A string of curse words that would make a sailor blush issues from Gold as he guns his engine and weaves across three more lanes to take the next exit and pull into a 7-11. His hands are steady on the wheel, but as he slams the transmission into park, Emma notices his knees are shaking, and when he pushes his door open, he has to hang onto the seat to get to his shaky feet. He takes in a deep breath of cold air and releases it, then says oh-so-smoothly, "Perhaps you would like to take the wheel for a while, Ms. Swan."

"Pit stop!" Henry crows, and before anyone can tell him otherwise, he flings the back door open and dashes inside. "Sorry," Emma apologizes. "Guess he needed to use the john."

"That probably wouldn't be such a bad idea," Gold says, his hand protecting his belly. "When that large truck blasted its horn. . . ." he leaves his sentence unfinished and scurries into the convenience store to vanish into the restroom.

They're waiting for him, leaning against the bonnet, when he returns. He doesn't chastise them for the armload of junk food with which they've littered his backseat, though he is horrified to see a boat of nachos swimming in melted cheese teetering precariously on the edge of the seat. He counts no less than six kinds of candy, all of it either the melting kind or the sticky kind, among the bags of chips and the cans of sodas. He closes his eyes briefly as the odor of hot dogs smothered in onions greets him when he opens the passenger-side door. Ah, well, he'll have Dove deodorize the car when they get back home (_Storybrooke, home? Egads. But that's where Belle is, so yes, Storybrooke is home._)

"You okay, Mr. Gold?" Henry stuffs a Dorito into his mouth as he peers up at the man who, Emma wonders, may be his grandfather.

"Good lad, Henry," Gold murmurs as he pats the boy's shoulder. He reaches into the little plastic bag bearing his own purchases and rips open a box of Digel. Popping four of them into his mouth, he settles his aching body into the passenger seat, wordlessly hands the keys to Emma, then eases his head against the headrest.

"Get in, Henry. Don't make a mess." Emma slides behind the wheel, adjusts the seat and the mirrors—and snaps the radio on to something loud and raucous and slightly obscene.

With a groan Gold closes his eyes. He keeps them closed as Emma darts in and out of traffic; he can't bear to watch.

* * *

"You decent, Gold?"

"I haven't been 'decent' in 150 years. But if you're asking whether I'm fully attired, the answer is yes."

The door joining his room to theirs swings open and they're standing there, framed, their faces freshly scrubbed, their hair combed, looking like they're ready to have a family portrait taken. He is seated in an armchair, staring at the TV; it's turned off. He has one shoe on, one off, his hair's askew, and his tie is crooked.

Henry bounds in and lands on Gold's bed, bouncing up and down. He spent yesterday crammed into a backseat and needs to burn off some energy. "Hey, Mr. Gold!"

"Henry," Gold acknowledges. He's still staring at the TV.

"You ready for breakfast?" Emma asks.

Before Gold can answer, Henry says, "This place is cool. Did you look around? There's a gym, a swimming pool, a restaurant with a fireplace. I've never been to a hotel before. We went looking around last night. What did you do?"

"Oh, I stayed in, watched a movie."

"We did too! We saw _Brave_. What did you see?"

Gold casts a meaningful glance at Emma. "_Flight_. And after that I couldn't sleep so I watched the late show: _Airport_. And after that the late late show: _Snakes on a Plane_."

"Oooh," Emma says. "Henry, why don't you go on downstairs and get us a table in the restaurant. We'll be right down."

Henry trots off. They watch him go, then Emma moves to the Louis Vuitton, which lies open on a stool meant for that purpose; she finds his hairbrush and goes to work on his cowlick. The strange part is, he permits it.

"You gonna be okay today?"

"Of course," he says too quickly.

"You didn't sleep last night, did you?" He doesn't answer, so she continues, "You know those weren't documentaries you watched last night, right? Every day, 2500 flights take off from airports all around the U. S. And every day, 2499 of them get to their destination without any incident whatsoever. You know that, right? Odds are better that you'll get hit on the head by a meteor than—you know."

"Meteorite," he corrects.

"Huh?"

"_Meteorite _is the term for a piece of a meteor that hits you on the head. It's a meteor when it's still in the sky."

"Whatever." She inspects her handiwork and tosses the hairbrush back into his suitcase, then straightens his tie. "Put your shoe on." She begins sorting through the stuff in the suitcase.

"What are you doing?" he starts to protest, but she puts up a "talk to the hand" hand.

"You're gonna leave most of this in the car: the jackets, the ties, the vests." Clothes are flying now, some of them onto the bed, some of them onto the floor.

He yelps and rescues the clothes from the floor, smoothing them tenderly, like a father would soothe a roughed-up child. "Waistcoats," he corrects in a murmur. "Do you realize, Sheriff, just one of those three-piece suits costs five grand?"

She clicks her tongue. "They're going into the trunk of your car, where they'll wait patiently for Daddy to come home. You'll take what can be fit into a carry-on. I'm not waiting at the baggage check for an hour just so you can wear your three-piece suits."

A third pile is building at her feet and he stares helplessly as it grows larger. "My toothpaste, cologne, shaving cream, razors—what are you doing now, Ms. Swan?"

"Those go in the trunk of your car too."

"But I need those things!"

"We're staying at the freakin' _Ritz_, Gold. They will provide. You can't get any of this through the security check."

"What?"

"Contraband. Every bit of it."

"Since when did shaving cream become a controlled substance?"

She grins at him. "Not illegal, Gold, just not permitted in your carry-on. Because you might be a terrorist."

"And I might take the pilot hostage with a tube of toothpaste." She gives him a suspicious look and he admits, "Well, yes, _I_ could, but how much harm could the average man do with Colgate?"

"It goes, Gold; it all goes." She pats his arm in sympathy as he mourns the loss of his hygiene products. "Never knew you were so attached to your toothpaste."

"Back in the old country, I had a bit of a dental problem. Besides, I don't want to meet my son looking like a slob," he complains.

"Gold, you could walk through a car wash during a hurricane and you'd still look put-together. Now come on, get your shoe on."

He sits down on the edge of the bed—which, she notices, he's made, with tight army corners—and pulls his shoe on.

"What's this?" she finds a wooden box and opens it to display a pair of small bottles containing a blue liquid.

"Retrieval potion," he says, "I can't find Bae without it."

She stands with her hands on her hips, thinking, then gets an idea. "Okay. Use a little hocus-pocus to slap labels on 'em: Clark's Pharmacy, and the address and phone number, and then your name, and then Nameda. Got that? N-a-m-e-n-d-a."

"Which is?"

"It's a kind of medication I read about in the _Boston Globe _this morning. If anybody asks, you've got early stage Alzheimer's, okay?"

"And that is?"

She gives him a strange look. "A disease that affects the memory." For just a moment his eyes light up, but Emma has to squealch his hopes. "No, nothing like what happened to Belle."

He nods and resumes tying his shoe, and she resumes her ravaging of his luggage.

"Ah ha!" She reaches into her jacket for her phone and after ascertaining that he's preoccupied with his shoe, she sneaks a quick photo of certain neatly folded articles of clothing in his suitcase.

"'Ah ha' what?" he has the shoe on now and ties the lace. After inspecting it, he's dissatisfied with the unsymmetrical bows he's made, so he starts over.

"I win the other pot. You're a briefs man." She waves a pair of his black shorts over her head. "Ruby bet me double or nothing it was boxers."

"Is nothing sacred in your world?" he sighs tiredly. "Ms. Swan, kindly refrain from manhandling my undergarments."

She guffaws as she finishes her sorting. There is now a sad little pile of shirts, slacks, and socks that she sets onto the bed; everything else gets dumped into the Louis. "We'll stop by the hotel gift shop after breakfast, pick you up a regulation-size carry-on bag." Snapping the suitcase shut, she brushes off her hands dismissively. "There. Ready for breakfast?"

He nods and reaches for his cane. As they leave the room, he shuts the light off, and as he shuts the door behind him, she notices the dark circles under his eyes. "Nervous about the flight or about Bae?"

"Not nervous, no." He fumbles with the electronic key, then examines it. "How can this possibly be called a key?"

"It'll be okay." She shakes her head. "It won't be easy, but it'll be okay. Now, how about a big old plate of biscuits and gravy with a slab of ham?"

"How unexpected. Haut cuisine at an airport hotel. Ms. Swan?"

"Yes, Mr. Gold?"

"Those statistics you cited earlier, about airplanes-?"

"Yeah," she says slowly. "I made them up."

He glances back longingly at the door as he follows her down the carpeted hallway. "Can't I at least keep the mouthwash?"

"We'll get you a roll of Certs."

* * *

As they approach the airport, the temperature inside the car seems to drop, growing downright chill in the area of the passenger seat. Henry gives up his attempts to pry a word out of Gold and instead watches the sky, the huge steel birds lifting their long noses, then their long, shiny bodies into the air. "Cool," he breathes.

Gold pretends to be concentrating on the road, but out of the corner of his eye he's watching the sky too. A whisper of agreement escapes him: "Cool." And then he turns his attention to the terminals, four of them, each one the size of the Storybrooke Library and the City Hall put together. His eyes dart back and forth and a frown forms between them, deepening as Emma swings the Caddy into a space in Long-Term Parking. She tosses the keys to Henry, who unlocks the trunk, and as he's removing their three carry-ons, she takes a picture with her phone. "So we don't have memorize the space number," she says, showing Gold the picture.

A little of the tension goes out of his shoulders. He's lost here, but she's not; he'll follow her, all the while pretending he's walking beside her, just as sure of where they're going as she is. He takes his new travel bag from Henry, and in an entirely coincidental imitation of the boy, he slings the bag casually over his left shoulder. He gives one last longing glance for the Louis Vuitton before Henry closes the trunk and hands him the keys.

But Emma doesn't lead them to any of the long buildings in the distance; she leads them to a little plexiglass-walled shelter, where they join a crowd other people, some of whom are in business suits. Gold secretly appraises the suits and, though he's in a coat and his own Hugo Boss three-piece isn't visible, he stands a little taller in the knowledge that what he's wearing can compete and win in this environment.

A pint-sized bus arrives and they all climb on—and then the trouble begins.

Every seat is filled and still people keep climbing on every time the bus stops at another shelter. A pair of little old nuns board with their suitcases on wheels; Henry leaps to his feet to offer his seat to one of the nuns. Gold's expression darkens. He's struggling with his values: his strict adherence to old-world courtesy. . . and his absolute determination to take every opportunity to punish every nun, out of loyalty to Bae. Emma and Henry, hanging onto the ceiling straps, sway over him; they say nothing, because after all, he does have a bit of a disability and therefore he has a right to a seat. The bus lurches forward and the standing nun stumbles, and that tears it: Gold growls deep in his throat and, leaning on his cane, hauls himself to his feet. "Please be seated," he mutters—and then rips the hated word from his tongue: "sister." He takes the nun's elbow and assists her in lowering herself to the seat.

As the bus pulls up to one of the buildings, a chime rings and a computer voice rattles off a bunch of names and some of the riders spill out. Gold is bumped into, his cane is knocked out of his hand, and his carefully polished shoes are stepped on before the bus lurches forward again. When it stops, Henry announces, "This is it!" even before the computer does. Gold struggles to keep his balance as he follows the lad and Emma off the bus. He wants to ask how Henry knew they should get off here, but that would be revealing ignorance. The crowd sweeps them inside the terminal.

Gold's mouth drops open. He's just walked into Chaos, or a modern interpretation of it. He should know: he vacationed on Chaos, a little island just off the West Highlands, one summer, the year after he'd become the Dark One. Emma grabs his arm and tugs. "Over here. Get your driver's license out." As she leads her guys to a long snaky line of passengers, she yanks her phone and her driver's license from her jeans. She shows both to the grim individual in a uniform and he flashes some sort of blue light onto them before returning them. "Show him your driver's license," she urges Gold.

"Am I driving somewhere?" he puzzles, but opens his wallet.

"You have to take it out," Mr. Grim sounds utterly bored.

"What?" Gold glances at Emma and hisses, "Is that some sort of crude remark?"

"Your driver's license," Emma explains. "Hand it to him."

Gold obeys, his license is scanned and returned to him, and Emma pulls on his arm to get him to move forward.

"What was that about?" But before he can complete the question, they're herded into another line. Gold gapes in horror as he watches hundreds of people, all of them strangers, begin to strip, very matter-of-factly yanking off shoes, coats, suit jackets, sweaters, belts, watches, bracelets and necklaces, and willingly they surrender all these items into little gray plastic bins, which they then place on a moving roller belt.

"What is this public strip-tease?" Gold gasps. He watches the bins trundle along until they disappear inside a metal box. "Sheriff, shouldn't you do something? They're stealing these people's clothes!"

"Shhh, Mr. Gold, don't attract attention," Emma hushes him—and to his continuing shock, she and Henry too begin to strip and dump their clothes into bins. " You too, Mr. Gold; take 'em off."

"I beg your pardon!" He clutches his coat, lest one of these crazies tries to steal it off his back.

"Take 'em off and put them in a bin," Emma reiterates. She's removing her swan necklace and her sheriff's badge.

"Here?" Gold's eyebrows shoot up. "Emma, I'm flattered and somewhat intrigued, but I must remind you, I'm in a committed relationship, even if she doesn't remember my name and shrieks in terror whenever I enter her room. Besides, there are children present."

She bursts out laughing and turns her back on him momentarily to empty her pockets of coins and keys. She swallows her laugh, though, when she glances back at him to find he's unzipping his fly. "Gold!"

The horrors are far from over even after Emma educates him on the public strip tease. His trousers rezipped, Gold falls into line between Henry and Emma, the former leading by example, the latter whispering instructions into his ear. Another bored uniform orders him to surrender his cane, and with gritted teeth he raises it; he's in mid-mutter ("Oh, I'll give you my cane, all right, right up your—") when Emma kicks his good ankle and urges, "Just put your cane up there on the conveyor belt."

"And how, pray tell, shall I walk without it?"

"Lean on me," Henry appears at his side.

That takes some of the steam out of his indignity. He sets a hand on Henry's shoulder and the boy takes a little of the man's weight. "Thank you, Henry." They move forward a couple of yards.

Now they've come to some sort of tiny circular room. He wonders if it's a changing room in which they may re-dress, but their surrendered clothes have disappeared into the abyss and besides, the little room is open on two sides. "I got to go inside," Henry says. "I'll meet you on the other side."

Henry enters the little room. A uniform orders him to stand spread-eagle; there's a flash of light, then the uniform permits Henry to exit the little room and collect his clothes, which the metal box has spit out. Henry re-dresses and smiles encouragingly to Gold. "It's okay, Mr. Gold."

"You're holding up the line, buddy," someone complains, and a uniform orders Gold to enter the little room. Gold attempts to do so, but he stumbles; Emma breaks his fall and explains to the uniform, "He needs help. He can't walk without his cane."

The uniform comes at Gold with a wand. He raises a warning finger. "Back away, fairy, or you shall taste the wrath of—"

"He's, uh, it's his Alzheimer's, you know?" Emma pleads as she sees two other uniforms start forward, their hands on their handcuffs. "Sometimes he thinks he's in a magical kingdom. Give him a minute and he'll be okay."

"We'll do the pat-down," the first uniform says, a twinge of sympathy in her voice. She sets the wand aside. "Hold your arms out and stand with your feet apart."

His face reddening, Gold complies—until the uniform places her gloved hands on his inner thigh. "Madam, you will unhand my person immediately or I shall find my cane and do to you what you are attempting to do to me."

As Emma slaps her palm to her face, the crowd behind them bursts out in applause.

An hour later, they're standing awkwardly in a cramped office. They've missed their flight, of course, and quite a crowd of uniforms has gathered in the small space to deliberate Gold's fate. Emma produces her badge every time someone new enters the room. "You must understand, he's never flown before and he's been having a bad reaction to the new medication he's on for his Alzheimer's," she keeps saying. She's lying through her teeth but she does it so sweetly. Gold's record comes up squeaky clean, and between his puppy-dog eyes and his cane and his impeccable manners and attire, he's built a small fan base for himself among the lady uniforms. With Sheriff Swan's vow to provide better preparation next time for her aging friend, they are finally released.

* * *

"What do we do now?" Henry asks as he leans against the Caddy.

"We could drive," Emma suggests. "It's only about four hours." She runs her hands through her hair as if trying to wipe away the horrible memory of their airport experience.

Gold stands straight-backed on the concrete, watching the little buses roll by, watching the steel birds take off. His hands are folded atop his cane, giving the illusion of serenity. "I believe we've had enough of this world's transportation woes for one day," he says. He snaps his fingers and his Louis Vuitton suitcase appears at his side. "Lady and gentleman, you will not be required to remove your clothing or surrender your toothpaste. You need not fasten your seat belt nor place anything in an upright position. Our flight time will be just under thirty seconds. Thank you for flying Air Rumple."

He waves a hand elegantly and they and the Caddy vanish.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3: Puttin' on the Ritz

"And the Rumple has landed," Emma quips, but Henry's staring at the scenery: the traffic, moving at a steady crawl; the pedestrians, moving at a steady trot; the vendors, shouting and touting their wares; and above it all, way way above it all, the buildings, silently promising permanence against the flow of constant change. She grabs Henry's hand and glances around for Gold.

She finds him halfway down the block, in a crowd gathered in front of a small folding table; he's been roped in by the fast-talking operator behind the table. The operator is fast-handed as well: he's shuffling three bottle caps back and forth across the surface of the table, too fast for the eye to follow. "Find the pea, find the pea," he's chanting, "win your money and mine."

"Houston, we have a problem," Emma remarks. She allows Henry to drag her into the crowd.

Gold is reaching into his pocket. "Crap!" Emma exclaims, for she knows what's going on, and she foresees that Gold is about to be conned. Despite Gold's Armani suit, the operator looked up and saw a country bumpkin coming. Not that Emma cares if Gold drops a bundle. Not that Emma cares if Gold's made a fool of. It's just that, once he discovers he's been conned, he's going to be awfully hard to live with—and not just for his traveling companions, Emma thinks, glancing at the cane and recalling how effectively the old man wields it. How's she going to explain to New York's Finest how a 300-year-old man managed to cane a 20-something street con artist?

She yanks on Gold's sleeve and calls his name, but it's too late. The money's on the table, the bottle cap is being lifted. . . and the con man blinks.

On the spot vacated by the bottle cap—the cap that Gold indicated with his cane—lies a pea.

Half the audience cheers and slaps Gold's shoulder in congratulations. The other half—the shills—stare in stunned silence. The shell man pulls himself together and congratulates Gold. "The luck of the virtuous, my man! Care to try again, double or nothing?"

Gold smirks. "Let it ride."

His teeth gritted, the shell man slides the bottle caps around. "Find the pea, find the pea, win your money and mine," he croons. He stops the slide. "Which cap is the pea under?"

Gold taps the man's left hand with his cane. "Too bad, my man, too—" the shell man is saying even before he lifts the bottle cap; but as soon as the cap is lifted, he changes his tune. "It's your lucky day, pal. You win again." For again, there's the pea, as Gold had predicted.

"Let it ride," Gold demands.

The shell man is scowling and certain members of the crowd are getting antsy, while others are talking excitedly. "One more time," the shell man agrees, and he shifts the bottle caps around on the table's surface. "Are you on a streak? Let's find out. Find the pea, find the pea, win your money and mine."

The shell man's hands flash across the tabletop and the bottle caps skitter. When his hands stop, he utters, "Where's the pea this time, pal?"

Gold taps his left hand. The shell man smiles and lifts the chosen bottle cap—and his smile vanishes because there's the pea. "This is your lucky day, all right, pops," the shell man swallows hard. "How about letting someone else play before you break me?"

_Oh, Gold will break you all right_, Emma is thinking, _if you manage to cheat him_.

"Let it ride," Gold demands.

"Sorry, mister, you're just too lucky for me," the shell man tries to push the bundle of bills at Gold, but Gold shakes his head.

"I'm not finished, pal," Gold says.

"Let the old man play," someone in the crowd insists.

"Yeah, let him play!" Emma calls out.

Gold glances over his shoulder at Emma; his expression betrays grave insult. "'Old'? I'm only 51. Emma, he called me 'old.'"

A fine sheen of sweat breaks out on the shell man's forehead. Emma spies a cop standing on the corner across the street, and she's sure the shills and the shell man are fully aware of that fact too.

"One more round for the lucky man." The shell man licks his lips and resumes the game. He stops the slide and Gold taps his left hand again. "Sorry, pops—" But once again, the pea is exactly where Gold predicted. The shell man runs his hand through his hair and stares at the bottle caps.

"Come on, give the man his money," Emma prompts, and the honest members of the crowd take up the call. Confused glances shoot back and forth between the shills and the shell man. The latter re-collects his wits and pushes the stack of bills toward Gold. "It's all yours, pops. Congratulations."

As the shell man hastily packs up his equipment, Gold folds the bills and slips them into his jacket pocket. "Shame on you for conning naïve old men on the street," Gold chastises. "Get a real job, sonny." And with half the crowd saluting the naïve old man, thereby preventing the shills from muscling the winner, Gold ambles back toward the Ritz. By the time Emma catches up to him, he's turning over his car keys to a valet.

"Wow, Mr. Gold," Henry exclaims. "That was cool, what you did back there."

Emma draws Gold aside and asks in a hushed voice, "How did you do that?"

"Do what, Ms. Swan?"

She slaps his arm. "Come on. That kid was a street con. He's been ripping people off for years. Did you—" she makes her fingers dance to suggest a conjure.

Gold places his hand against his chest and huffs, "Are you accusing me of cheating?"

Henry ponders, "Is cheating a cheater still cheating?"

Gold touches the boy's shoulder reassuringly. "I didn't cheat, Henry, though, yes, he was attempting to cheat me."

"But it's a con. You can't beat those guys; they palm the pea as soon as you choose the shell, and then they pass the pea under a different shell," Emma reasons. "The player can't possibly win."

Gold smirks. "He can if he can see the future." He turns away. "Come along, Henry, let's make certain our appointed accommodations meet our standards."

* * *

"This will suffice." Gold dips his hand into his jacket and tips the bellman with some of the shell man's money. "Thank you."

The bellman thanks him and leaves, quietly closing the door behind him.

Emma stands in the center of the white-and-gold appointed suite. All she can do is gape; she's never seen the likes: this room manages to be elegant and yet comfortable at the same time. Henry dashes from room to room, shouting back his findings: "Dining room! A kitchen! A safe! Two bedrooms! Two—no, three bathrooms! Marble tub! Holy cow, there's tv's in the bathrooms!"

"I won't have any trouble getting you to take a bath tonight, will I?" Emma trails after him. "Don't be shoutin', okay?"

"Why not? We're twenty-one floors up! Nobody'll hear us."

Emma can't think of a good reason, so she settles for, "This isn't the kind of place people shout in."

Henry makes his way back into the living room. He starts to bounce on the couch, but then he spies something irresistible at the window. "Emma—a telescope!"

"After this, our little apartment back home is going to seem pitiful," Emma sighs.

Gold, standing perfectly still in the center of the room, raises an eyebrow. "To him or to you?"

"Both of us, I guess," she admits. "Hey, I got a question."

A single corner of Gold's mouth tips up. "Just one? You disappoint me, Ms. Swan."

She chooses to ignore the little dig. "If your magic is strong enough to transport the three of us and that big old boat you call a car all the way from Boston, why didn't you just transport us from Storybrooke? Why go to all the expense of trying to fly?"

He leans a little heavily on his cane; she can see he's tired. "You will learn for yourself when you begin exercising the powers you've been gifted. All magic—"

"Comes with a price," Henry finishes from his station at the telescope. "Hey, Emma, you should see what the guy in the apartment across the street is doing. He's got this big doll he's putting lipstick on—"

"Henry, don't be looking in people's windows. Look at. . . I don't know. . . clouds or something."

"The clouds aren't doing anything."

"Well, then, look at the street."

"Okay. Hey, Emma, what's this mean?" Henry raises his middle finger in the air. "Is that, like, the 'live long and prosper' thing from that tv show you like? There's a taxi driver down there doing that to another taxi driver."

"Henry!"

"What? What'd I do?"

"Just—why don't you see what's in the closets, okay?"

As Henry accepts the invitation to nose around some more, Emma turns her attention back to Gold. "So if you didn't want to pay the price on the magic to bring us from Storybrooke, why did you change your mind at the airport?"

Gold fiddles with his ring so that he doesn't have to meet her eyes. "In that situation, the magic was pre-paid, so to speak, so I might as well have used it."

"Oh?" she frowns, not understanding. "What did you pay for that magic?"

He blushes. "My dignity. It seems you were correct, Ms. Swan, when you said the two great powers of this world are the airlines and the TSA. They gave this old sorcerer a sound trouncing."

She smiles. "Oh, yeah." And then, mercifully, she bails him out by changing the subject. "I suppose you'll want to hit the bricks right away, now that we're here."

"Indeed. But as it is nearly noon, I suppose we should dine first. Adolescent boys and magic must be fed." He smoothes his jacket, straightens his tie and moves to the front door to hold it open for Emma and Henry.

"Lunchtime, Henry!" Emma calls to her son, then follows Gold to the door. "I understand the boys part. Henry's a pizza vacuum; he can suck down a twelve-inch pie in two minutes flat. But what do you mean about feeding magic?"

"A good question, of the kind I hope you will someday ask more. Someday, when I have time to teach you and you have the courage to learn, I will explain the laws of supply and demand as they apply to magic. For the moment, suffice it to say, the key to maintaining one's magic is protein. Protein for the magic, and carbohydrates for the sorcerer's energy level." As Henry trots up, Gold leans forward conspiratorially. "One of the privileges of 'old age' is that we elderly can say things a child's parents would never want said, and I'm evoking my first privilege right now. Henry, if you want to grow up to be a powerful sorcerer, eat pizza. Lots and lots of pizza."

"I'm gonna love this trip!" Henry cheers as he dashes for the elevator.

Emma sighs in exasperation. "Aw, come on, Gold, I got enough trouble with David permitting sword fighting in the house. I thought at least I could count on you to be a follow-the-rules kind of guy."

Gold shrugs, closing the door behind them. "At least I didn't tell him about the physio-magical benefits of candy."

"There are benefits of candy?" Henry chirps. "All kinds of candy, or just, like, chocolate? 'Cause I could go either way; it would be all right with me."

"Ah, now, that depends," Gold winks. "Chocolate if you're casting spells within the relaxation family: spells to combat nervousness or insomnia, for example. But hard candies if you wish to affect the weather: lemon drops for sunshine, peppermints for snow, butterscotch for rain."

"What about ice cream?" Henry asks eagerly. "I see you go into Amy's Ice Cream Shoppe every Friday. Is that for magic energy?"

"That's for me. Sometimes a man hears the siren call of ice cream and he has no choice but to follow. Now, let's consider the benefits of cookies—"

"GOLD!"

* * *

"Wow," Emma gushes as they enter the leather-and-mahogany elegance of the Ritz's Auden Bistro. A waiter takes her jacket and withdraws a chair so that she can be seated. "Wow." And when the waiter presents her with a menu and she checks out the offerings, "Wow" again comes to her lips, quickly changing to a "Holy crap" when she gets a load of the prices. But she reminds herself she's not paying; Gold is, and Gold is as loaded as his name implies, so she need not cheat her appetite for the sake of his wallet. Without hesitation she orders the duck confit salad, Lobster Nicoise (the lobster's from Maine) and pear pate a choux—she has no idea what that is but the words are fun to pronounce.

Gold orders mussels and Scottish salmon and ice cream.

Henry flips the menu back and forth between his hands and scowls. Emma tries to help: "There's a hamburger."

"With mushrooms," Henry grimaces, "and aged cheddar—Emma, old cheese is moldy! And garlic—" he can't pronounce the next word so he spells it—"a-i-o-l-i. Whatever that is."

Emma shrugs.

"It's a kind of mayo," Gold explains. "I'll take care of this." He instructs the waiter to bring a plain hamburger.

Henry's too polite to say so—and Emma must give Regina credit for the manners Henry possesses—but he's disappointed, and even more disappointed when the meal comes and looks nothing like anything he's ever eaten before. In fact, some of it—the mussels and the duck confit—looks gross, in his unexpressed opinion. But as soon as the waiter has departed, Gold gives a sly little smile and fulfills his promise, and Henry chows down with all the enthusiasm a hungry pre-teen can muster.

The waiter returns a few moments later with the coffee carafe. "More coffee, ma'am? Sir?" He fills their cups. "Is everything to your satisfaction?"

"It's great," Emma replies.

"Very good," Gold judges.

"Delicious!" Henry pronounces around a mouthful of gooey mozzarella and greasy sausage.

The waiter's mouth drops open. "But. . . but I could have sworn. . . " He checks his notepad and mutters, "Yes. The Auden burger. How did. . . But we don't serve pizza here. . . ." He walks away scratching his head. "This is what I get for pulling a double shift."

"Eat up, Henry," Gold urges. "Pizza: the lunch of champions. Imagine what Merlin's powers could have been if Camelot had had pepperoni."


End file.
